All Through the Night: Reprise
by Gramarye
Summary: A sleepless midsummer night in Wales forces Will to confront his past, present, and future...and Bran can only watch. Bran POV--very, very dark.


You don't need to read "All Through the Night" before you read this   
story, though I recommend it. There are enough parallels between the  
two pieces to make it worth your while. Like the first one, this is   
a sad, simple little vignette, though it is much darker than the first  
one. Set about four years after the end of Silver on the Tree, summer  
of 1977 if you care for dates and times.  
  
A heads up warning--I'm not used to writing in a Bran-POV style.   
Shouldn't cause problems, but I ought to say so, all the same.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"   
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.  
  
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All Through the Night: Reprise  
By: Gramarye  
  
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Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant   
Ar hyd y nos.   
Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant   
Ar hyd y nos.   
Golau arall yw tywyllwch,   
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch,   
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch   
Ar hyd y nos.  
  
(translation)  
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee.  
All through the night.  
Guardian angels God will lend thee  
All through the night.  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,  
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping.   
God his loving vigil keeping,   
All through the night.  
  
--"All Through the Night", traditional Welsh lullaby  
(Welsh lyrics by John Ceiriog Hughes,  
English lyrics by Harold Boulton)  
  
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I wake up out of a sound sleep and I don't know why.   
  
No, wait, I do--it's the mattress creaking. Strange. The noise never  
bothered me when I was in bed, but lying on the floor beside it the   
springs sound like a gun going off right over my head.  
  
I roll over, eyes already closing, but something's blocking the bit of  
moonlight that comes in from the window. A dark figure, sitting up in  
the bed with his knees making a tent of the blanket.  
  
Will.  
  
He's awake, too.  
  
I almost had to fight him to get him to take the bed. I'm not having   
a guest in my own house kip on my bedroom floor and I told him as much,  
but he's so damn--English, I guess--that he kept on protesting until I  
told him I'd knock him out if it came down to it.  
  
He didn't argue after that.  
  
Da went to bed early tonight, before nine. He was tired; he'd been   
mending fences all day. Nothing wakes him when he's really sound   
asleep. Will and I went to bed at ten after both of us started  
nodding off over our books.   
  
Will, of course, took the bed. I threw some blankets on the floor--  
too hot for a sleeping bag.  
  
I'm not going to be able to fall asleep again any time soon.  
  
Damn it, I didn't want this for a summer.   
  
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Will and I were supposed to go  
running about like we always do, swimming or hiking or into Tywyn to  
the cinema. Everything we usually do, that we've done for the last  
few years whenever he comes to visit.  
  
A phone call changed that, this time.  
  
Last week of school, I think it was. I'd stopped off at the Evans'  
house to practise on their harp before I started my homework, and  
I went into the kitchen to see Mrs. Evans and collect the cup of  
tea she always has waiting for me.  
  
She was on the phone, talking to someone in English. Well, not  
talking exactly. More like listening, and going "Mm" or "I see"   
every so often.   
  
I was about to drop my schoolbag on the chair and head for the sitting  
room, but she turned and saw me standing in the doorway, and the look  
in her eyes made me stop where I was.   
  
She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and said in Welsh, "Stay for a  
minute, Bran. I'm almost done here."  
  
So I sat, and waited for her to finish. I wasn't eavesdropping then--  
there wasn't anything to eavesdrop on. The person on the other end   
was doing all the talking. She just listened with this stiff, tight   
expression on her face, as if her skin had frozen on her cheeks. A   
mug of tea was on the table, with the tea bag still in it and the   
water nearly black. It hadn't been touched.  
  
She said goodbye and hung up, but stood still for a moment with her   
hand on the receiver.  
  
"I'm glad you're here," she said quietly, in English.  
  
Her Welsh is remarkably good for a Saesnes, so when she spoke to me   
in her native tongue I knew something was very wrong.   
  
"What is it?" I asked, alarmed. "What's the matter?"  
  
Her gentle voice cracked, husky and rough. "It's Will."  
  
Two words and they numbed me to the core, like the jab of painkillers  
the dentist gives you right before he pulls your tooth out.   
  
She started talking then, mixing English and Welsh until she got so   
muddled that she had to stop and start more than one sentence over   
again. She told me about Will's parents and his older brother and a   
plane from Jamaica, and that those three things were connected in a  
very bad way. All the time she kept repeating that Will was all   
right, he was still at school, but that there were a lot of legal   
things that had to be taken care of and that he was coming to spend   
his entire summer holiday in Wales while everything was being sorted  
out in Buckinghamshire.  
  
School went by pretty fast after that.  
  
I don't think the whole thing sank in properly until the day Rhys and I   
went to fetch him from the station in Tywyn. Bumping along in the car,   
Rhys kept telling me that we should act as normal as possible when he   
was here, be cheerful, not tiptoe round him like he was some sort of   
delicate invalid. I wondered how much of it was Aunt Jen talking, but  
mercifully he shut up and we rode in silence the rest of the way.  
  
I don't know what I expected when I saw him get off the train. Maybe I   
thought that he'd look different, that because he was an orphan now he   
would be all scrawny and underfed and wild-eyed--that he'd have turned   
into Oliver Twist or something like that. But there was Will with his   
bulging knapsack, brown hair still falling in his eyes, as ordinary as   
I've ever seen him. The ordinary Will who'd spent a summer month on   
the Evans farm since we were eleven or so, except that now he was   
sixteen and his parents were dead.  
  
He hugged Rhys, and me, and said hello how are you doing. And that was   
the last he spoke until we got back to the farm.  
  
There was a big dinner that night. Da and I went, and John Rowlands   
was there, and some of the other men from the farms nearby. Aunt Jen   
hovered over Will the entire time, slipping him the best bits of the   
roast and piling his plate so full of food that she almost couldn't   
balance it to hand it to him.  
  
He ate all of it, and asked for more.   
  
I could see the relief in her eyes.   
  
Strange how summer days fly by when you're working. There's always   
something to do on a farm, something to make or mend or tear down or   
clean up. I came over most every day to help Da and John Rowlands,   
and Will was there, too, working. He didn't speak much to anyone, just   
"Thanks" or "I'll get that" or "Could you please?" to whoever he was   
working with. He even picked up a bit of Welsh, and didn't slaughter  
the words like he had when we were younger.   
  
Slaughter. I never knew how hard it was to avoid mentioning death  
before. Even something like, "Oh, I could just *kill* So-and-so!"  
took on a whole new meaning when Will was nearby. So when someone  
said 'death' or 'kill' or 'murder', no matter the context, there  
was a lot of shuffling of feet and eyes that didn't know where to   
look.   
  
So since the others--since *we*--never knew what to talk about with   
Will around, there wasn't as much chattering and the work got done   
faster.  
  
Which left us with free time.  
  
Lots of walking, that's what we did. Long walks, endless walks, just   
the two of us, for hours on end, all over the mountains and valleys.   
We might've crossed Snowdonia National Park three or four times, I   
think. And once I discovered (after two hellishly awkward days) that  
I didn't need to make small talk the whole time, the walks were silent  
ones.  
  
At first I was the one leading the way, but by the end of the week he   
was the one in the lead, following paths that I'd never taken before   
and I *know* he'd never taken before. I never thought to ask where   
we were going--he was the one who wanted to walk, and we were always   
home in time for dinner however far we went. I just wanted to spend   
time with him, because Lord knows there's little enough for me to do at   
home by myself. And Da didn't mind me being out all the time, oddly   
enough. He was positively welcoming when I suggested that Will spend  
his last night in Wales sleeping over at our house. Probably, he was  
proud of me for being so kind to poor Will Stanton, when he needed it  
most.  
  
As if poor Will Stanton ever needed anything from me.  
  
He's shifted position now, and there's something in his hands. It   
looks like a piece of paper, but just then the moonlight hits it and  
I can see that it's smaller than that. A postcard, maybe, from back   
home.   
  
He hasn't gotten any post since he arrived, though. Scratch that idea.  
  
"Did I wake you up?"  
  
That's more than he's said to me in a while, and for a moment I'm too   
startled to reply.  
  
"No," I say at last. "No, you didn't."  
  
He leans back on the pillows. "Sorry."  
  
Suddenly I'm angry.   
  
"Look, you didn't wake me up, okay?" I say, sitting up and wincing a   
little. Sleeping on a floor isn't good for your back, no matter how  
young you are. "I was already awake, and the question is: why are   
you? You've got a train to catch tomorrow--no, today," I correct   
myself, checking the alarm clock on the table.  
  
He doesn't look at me. "I had a bad dream."  
  
Iesu Crist, what do I say to that?   
  
"Do...do you want to talk about it?" comes out of my mouth before I can  
stop it, and I immediately want to beat myself senseless.  
  
He leans over and switches on the light. It hurts--I have to blink   
several times, and when I can see again I see him gazing at me, very  
calm and thoughtful-looking.  
  
"All right," he says quietly, and pats the blanket beside him.  
  
I scramble onto the bed and tuck my legs up under me.  
  
He's silent for a moment before he speaks.  
  
"You met Stephen, didn't you? When you came to visit last Christmas?"  
  
I think quickly, running through his brothers. There were the twins,  
the flute playing one, the Naval officer--yes, that was it. "Yeah,   
I did."  
  
"Stephen's been in Jamaica for a long while, with his ship." The   
choice of tense bothers me, but Will continues calmly, like he was   
telling a story that someone else had told him. "He had shore leave   
coming up, and he invited my parents to come to Jamaica for a holiday.   
They haven't had a proper holiday in years, you know. With nine kids   
you don't go places that often, especially not to the West Indies."  
  
He purses his lips, thinking. "Dad had been overseas when he was   
younger, but Mum had never been out of the country. They sent me lots   
of letters and postcards, full of chatty details. They really loved   
it there, all that sun and sand and beautiful weather. They were   
supposed to fly back with him when his leave started. He--Stephen,   
that is--got a new posting, at the base in Portsmouth, and he wants  
to spend time with all of us before he has to go to Hampshire."  
  
How the hell do you tell if someone's going mad? I mean, I was there   
when Caradog Prichard just went off his head, screaming and raving and  
so bad they had to hold him down until the doctors came, but Will's not  
like that now. Really, if it wasn't for that shifting between past and  
present, I'd swear that nothing was wrong.  
  
But then he looks at me, and he's not looking *at* me but *through* me,  
as if I'm not even there, and I shudder. I can't help it, and I wonder  
if I should call Aunt Jen even though it's two in the morning but I   
can't move, not even an inch.  
  
"But the plane didn't make it," he says, and his voice makes me shiver  
again--it's so cold and distant and it sends prickles of fear running   
through me. "And I'm sixteen years old and I didn't think it would   
start like this."  
  
"S...start?" The word almost doesn't come out.  
  
"Eh?" He blinks rapidly, almost as if he's waking up, snapping out   
of it. He looks at me, properly, for the first time, and I want to  
cry with sheer relief because he's *Will* again.   
  
"Oh, god, I'm sorry, Bran." He shoves his hair out of his eyes with   
one hand. The other is still clutching what I now see is a postcard,   
with a tropical beach on it. Lots of palm trees. "I didn't mean to--"  
  
"No, no, it's okay," I blurt out, because I'd do anything to keep him  
talking. After over a month of silence, I have to hear his voice. "I  
mean, you don't have to talk about it, but if it helps you...but you  
don't *have* to...."  
  
I fall silent. The person you think--no, who *is* your best friend,   
the only real friend you've ever had, and you can't even tell him   
you're sorry he's lost his parents and his older brother overnight.  
  
Stupid, Bran Davies, that's what you are. A fat lot of good your   
"I'm sorry" will do for him.  
  
He stares down at the bedclothes.   
  
"I really don't know how you've put up with me, these weeks. I've been  
horrible company, and I know it," he adds quickly as I open my mouth to  
protest. "And I'm sorry."  
  
"Will," I say gently. "Honestly. You don't have anything to apologise   
for." I take his hand and squeeze it to emphasise my point.   
  
But his hand lies limp in mine, and he doesn't return the pressure.   
Instead, he lifts his head, and looks at me with guarded eyes.   
  
"I saw a man die once," he says, emotionlessly.  
  
I say nothing.  
  
"He was an old man." He looks down again. Emotion slowly creeps into   
his voice, a pain that makes my chest tighten in response. "Death was   
a release for him--he wanted it, he had wanted it for so long that he   
welcomed it when it came. And there was no pain, or anything like   
that. He just--was gone." Raw anguish makes his voice bleed like an   
open wound. "But I watched him die, and I couldn't do anything for   
him. I let him die. And knowing that he wanted to die didn't...  
*doesn't*...make me feel any better."  
  
He's rocking back and forth now, knees drawn up to his chest. I edge   
closer to him and tentatively put my arms round him. I can feel his   
heart racing. His breathing is heavy and ragged.  
  
"Shh..." I whisper, though I know he doesn't hear me. "Shhh, Will.   
It's all right. It wasn't your fault."  
  
He stiffens, and his breath catches in his throat. I stiffen as well,  
in response.  
  
It's at that moment when the sleeve of my pyjamas starts to feel damp.  
  
"It wasn't my fault," he mutters, more to himself than to me.  
  
"That's right," I murmur soothingly, and now I'm the one rocking him,   
like a mother would her child.  
  
There's a soft, tearing noise, and the postcard is now in two pieces.   
  
"That's what Mum said to me."   
  
Another tearing noise, and two pieces have become four. The torn bits   
of brightly coloured paper land on the blanket, crumpled and forgotten.   
  
And Will's next words, barely above a whisper, crack my heart into a   
million pieces.  
  
"....so how am I supposed to feel when I know that she *didn't* want   
to die?"  
  
Then he's crying, openly now, and I'm crying too, sobbing because of   
him and his mum and his dad and his brother and Cafall and I don't know   
why Cafall because I haven't thought about him in ages but it hurts all   
the same but don't know why it hurts like this and now Will's speaking,   
babbling brokenly:  
  
"I'll lose you. All of you. This is just the start, it's starting   
already, you'll go away and leave me, and I'll be all alone, all alone   
with the dark, oh god with the DARK...."  
  
  
..........  
  
  
I think I stop crying first. I'm so tired I can hardly see straight,   
but I've collected myself enough to ease Will back into bed. He's   
exhausted as well, though the tears are still coming. He doesn't   
notice when I switch off the light.  
  
I lie down next to him. He has my pillow and the other one's on the  
floor with the blankets but I don't care. I'm dead tired but I don't   
care. He's leaving tomorrow, and I have this horrible feeling in my   
gut that he's leaving me for good, forever and ever, and if I don't   
stay awake for the rest of the night he'll vanish when the sun comes  
up, melt away into the morning mist like the ghosts in fairy stories.  
  
I watch him all night.  
  
He doesn't vanish when the sun comes up.   
  
He gets up then, and takes a shower. I shower while he puts on his   
clothes. He packs his knapsack while I put mine on. We walk down to  
his aunt's house and eat a quick breakfast, and she hugs him tightly   
and drops a kiss on his forehead before we leave for the station with  
Rhys. He boards his train, the early train to London, and waves   
goodbye to us from his seat by the dirty window.   
  
We wave back until the train is out of sight.  
  
I don't sleep very well that night.  
  
Or the next night.  
  
Or the one after that.  
  
And I don't think he does, either.  
  
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Gramarye  
gramarye@postmaster.co.uk  
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/  
August 20th, 2002 


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